


Last Watch

by mangochi



Series: Last Watch [1]
Category: Black Panther (2018)
Genre: Erik Killmonger Lives, M/M, Post-Movie, Pre-Slash, and is now working off his sentence with W'Kabi, parole
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-19
Updated: 2018-05-19
Packaged: 2019-05-09 04:00:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,110
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14708693
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mangochi/pseuds/mangochi
Summary: “I told you not to wander,” W’Kabi says. He doesn’t bother masking the irritation in his voice. “Do you want the Dora raining down on our heads again? Imbecile.”Erik raises a hand lazily, plucks the cigarette from his lips and exhales a cloud of acrid smoke that makes W’Kabi’s nose itch. “Nah,” he says. “Knew you’d come out eventually.”





	Last Watch

**Author's Note:**

> So this was a crack ship turned suddenly VERY REAL in convos between me and my friend @kolotwi on Twitter.  
> Premise: Erik survives and is sentenced to community work with W'Kabi until he gets his shit together, essentially, this particular story takes place about six months into their time together.

There is a soft pinging, like muffled bells in the distance, and W’Kabi wakes with a sudden twitch. The moonlight shining through the tent walls is disorienting, light where he expects darkness. His kimoyo beads, he realizes, are still emitting a quiet, insistent alarm, and it takes him another moment to notice the empty bedroll beside his own.

“For Bast’s sake,” he mutters, dragging a hand over his face. This is not the first time the limits of their proximity restrictions have been pushed, but W’Kabi’s patience is already stretched paper thin. Once, taking shifts at the rhino enclosures was his greatest pleasure. Sitting alone in the plains, with only the stars and his own thoughts for company.

But now…now he finds these nights to be the worst of his shared assignments.

The rhinos are asleep when he finally fights his way out of the tent, his blanket disheveled around his shoulders and shoes half laced around his ankles. He looks out at their looming shadows, pale and snoring in the grass, and allows a burst of affection to briefly soften his mood. This much, at least, has not changed.

In the end, the culprit is not difficult to track down. W’Kabi finds him leaning against the base of a tree, the trunk slanted by the mountain winds. His legs are outstretched before him, splayed carelessly, and the end of his cigarette glows brightly in the shadow over his face. The alarm in W’Kabi’s bracelet grows quiet as he approaches, and when he finally stops before Erik, there is only the sound of the wind and the murmur of insects. It is difficult to think of him as any of his other names. The man before him is not N’Jadaka the lost prince, nor Killmonger the soldier. Before he was either of those things, W’Kabi supposes he was simply Erik.

“I told you not to wander,” W’Kabi says. He doesn’t bother masking the irritation in his voice. “Do you want the Dora raining down on our heads again? Imbecile.”

Erik raises a hand lazily, plucks the cigarette from his lips and exhales a cloud of acrid smoke that makes W’Kabi’s nose itch. “Nah,” he says. “Knew you’d come out eventually.” The clouds shift overhead, and a shaft of moonlight cuts across his face. W’Kabi glares down, unamused, and scowls deeper when Erik’s mouth twitches.

“What, you gonna miss out on your beauty sleep? Gonna need a whole lot more than that, if you ask-”

W’Kabi bends down and snatches the cigarette away, dropping it beneath his heel and grinding it into the dirt. “You should be at your post. It’s not my shift for hours.”

Erik, to W’Kabi’s outrage, only tuts and reaches inside his shirt to pull out another cigarette. He lights it with an ancient plastic lighter, the embers glowing bright as he sucks in a long drag. “Thought the smoke would fuck with the rhinos. It’s downwind here.” Smoke curls from his nostrils, disappearing into the black sky.

It is an unexpected show of consideration. W’Kabi is instantly suspicious. “You shouldn’t have those,” he says. “Where did you-”

“See, the funny thing about a secret is, I’m not actually allowed to say,” Erik tells him, and he has the audacity to wink.

W’Kabi closes his eyes and prays for deliverance. It’s hardly as if he has no idea where Erik managed to get his hands on contraband. Even the most psychotic of criminals has their share of fans, and it isn’t, W’Kabi concedes with great reluctance, as if he cannot see Erik’s appeal. He’s young, passionate, hardly difficult to look at. A man practically born for idolatry and basks in the knowledge of it.

For a split second, W’Kabi allows himself to wonder if he has garnered any public attention at all himself. He quickly stifles the thought. He has never been suited for the spotlight, after all.

He looks down at Erik instead, smoking shitty tobacco in the Wakandan plains, his shirt open to bare his scars to the night air, and sighs.

“Move over.”

“Huh?” Erik’s eyebrows lift, and for a horrifying second, he almost resembles T’Challa.

“I _said_ ,” W’Kabi nudges his foot against the side of Erik’s leg, none too gently, “to move over.”

Erik does not budge, but W’Kabi hardly expected him to. He sits down anyway, tucking his blanket beneath him, and knocks his shoulder roughly against Erik’s until he can lean on the tree trunk beside him. “Give me that.”

“Don’t put this one out, I’ve only got a few.”

“ _Give_ it.”

The first drag burns his throat and lungs, but he holds it in and refuses to cough. The night is dark enough to hide his watering eyes, and he tilts his head back to release the smoke, watching the moon through the leaves above him.

“Not bad, Tiny Tim,” Erik says, amusement lifting the ends of his words.

W’Kabi refuses to be riled up. “Tastes like shit,” he says. He lets Erik take the cigarette back, the taste of it still heavy on the back of his tongue. “Figured you’d like it.”

“What, this? Naw, man.” Erik digs in his shirt and produces a blue, half-crushed cardboard pack. “Fucking American Natural Spirit. Funny, huh? Hate them, personally.” A piece of ash breaks off, lands silently between them. “My mom smoked one every weekend, out on the balcony at night when she thought I was asleep. Could always smell them the next morning, even with the windows open. She’d always make waffles for breakfast that day.”

“You’re talkative tonight,” W’Kabi mutters. It’s not so remarkable a thing; these nights are usually filled with one-sided, inane chatter, Erik slinging cutting remarks and digging for reactions with all the manic enthusiasm of a toddler. This, too, is rambling of a sort, but less grating than the usual.

A gust of wind sweeps down the hillside, chilly despite the daytime heat, and he burrows deeper into his blanket. Beside him, Erik seems entirely unbothered by the cold, his shirt flapping open before settling back against his skin.

“My mother,” W’Kabi hears himself say, “once convinced me that money was made from leaves. She sent me to the market with a handful of bosse leaves and told me to buy myself a treat. I was four years old at the time.”

Erik laughs, a genuine burst of amusement that shakes his shoulders. “Moms, huh?”

W’Kabi gives a low grunt of acknowledgement, pulling his knees to his chest. Below, the wind ripples over the plains, the moonlight turning the grass into a silver sea. With his present company silent, it is almost peaceful.

“You done digging that stick outta your ass yet?”

W’Kabi sighs and closes his eyes, wondering if perhaps he’s still caught in a bad dream. It would explain the insanity of the moment.

“Yo, W’Kabi,” Erik says, bumping against him like a blind bee. “Don’t sleep out here, man, I ain’t carrying your ass back up this hill.”

“I wouldn’t expect you to,” W’Kabi snaps, his last strand of patience swiftly fraying. He has had enough of this. He pushes himself to his feet, slapping the dust off his blanket, and draws it tight around himself. “I’m going back,” he announces, then jabs a finger down at Erik. “Finish that and get back to your post.”

“Aye aye, Captain.”

W’Kabi strides back up the hill, ears burning, and satisfies himself with kicking Erik’s bedroll to the far side of the tent. The alarm does not sound again that night.

Erik is snoring lightly beside him when W’Kabi wakes, his hand beneath his cheek like a child, and W’Kabi wonders if it is a recently acquired habit. Surely he couldn’t have slept like this as a working mercenary. The sunlight filtering through the tent walls is golden and warm, softening his face in a way that the moonlight did not.

W’Kabi looks at him for a moment longer, then punches him in the shoulder.

Erik grunts awake, swiping at drool clinging to his lip, and squints up at him with evident annoyance. “The hell?”

“Have to feed the calves,” W’Kabi says, and he leaves Erik blinking after him in the tent.

***

“You’ve missed a spot.” Erik’s weight presses down against his back, his elbow digging into W’Kabi’s shoulder.

“Get off.” W’Kabi aims an elbow backwards, scowling when Erik manages to avoid it. “Mind your own work.” He picks up the polishing cloth again and heaves the saddle higher up in his lap.

“Look, I ain’t good with babies. I told you so before. They don’t like me.”

“I thought you’d relate better to animals,” W’Kabi says dourly. He sets down the saddle and stands, turning to take in the situation. He finds Erik attempting to wrestle the youngest of the calves into submission, a large milk bottle tucked under his arm and his face damp with sweat. “Stop that, you’re scaring her.”

“She can handle it, big ole baby war beast-”

“Your face could scare a demon back into a hell.” W’Kabi pushes him aside, slapping Erik’s hand away when he attempts to retaliate, and he crouches down to soothe the indignant calf, patting at her heaving sides. In the next enclosure over, her mother stamps with growing agitation.

“You’re good with them,” Erik says unexpectedly, when the calf murmurs and stills beneath his administrations.

“Of course I am. I’ve done this my whole life.” W’Kabi rubs a hand over where the calf’s horn will develop soon, and finds himself smiling when she butts her head against his palm. “Hand me the bottle.”

“No, I’ll do it.” Erik steps up beside him, clutching the bottle stubbornly with both hands. “You don’t get to have all the fun.”

W’Kabi opens his mouth to retort, then swallows it back. It is good enough that Erik is willing to attempt to assist now; in the beginning, he refused to do anything at all. “Come on, then.” He braces the calf’s head with his arm, lifting it up towards the bottle, and watches with satisfaction as she finally latches onto the heavy teat.

“Oh, there you go, baby. Look at her go, W’Kabi, damn.” Erik grins, delighted. W’Kabi grunts, scratching idly behind the calf’s ears. “You know, you ain’t so bad.”

“I told you, you’ll get used to them,” W’Kabi says. The calf has relaxed enough now for him to let go, and he sits back on his heels, watching her drink. Erik does not answer, and when W’Kabi glances up, he sees the fleeting remains of an odd expression. “What?”

“Never mind.” Erik shakes his head, his normal smirk already back. It’s a look that W’Kabi continues to find reasons to dislike. “Never change, man. Never change.”

W’Kabi feels his brow furrow, and he wonders if there is some sort of mockery at work here. It would not be the first time, but he is usually quick to pick up on it. In the end, he settles for ignoring it.

Lunch is delivered by a young village child who does not seem to know which one of them to be more afraid of. She leaves the basket by the enclosures and watches from a distance until W’Kabi has taken the dishes out and put the old ones from the night before inside.

They eat sitting together on the hilltop, the sun hot on their heads. “That don’t bother you?” Erik asks, jerking his chin up at the child creeping forward again to take the basket. “Being treated like that.”

“Why would it bother me? They’re right to be cautious.” W’Kabi tears his roll into smaller pieces, tossing a few to the small brown birds hopping nearby. “And I could say the same to you.”

Erik snorts, his cheek stuffed full of sticky rice. “You think I got this far by giving a shit about what anyone thinks? Think again.”

W’Kabi refrains from pointing out that perhaps if he did, neither of them would be war criminals shackled together for the rest of their parole. “It’s all right if they don’t understand,” he says. “I don’t expect it from them.”

Erik’s shoulder bumps against his, and W’Kabi finds that it is not as irritating as it once was. He wonders how Erik would react, if W’Kabi told him that T’Challa has a similar habit. The two of them, he knows, are more alike than Erik believes. He can already imagine the horrified expression, the hard poke of Erik’s elbow in his side, the day-long sulk that would follow.

Perhaps W’Kabi will tell him another day. For now, he is somewhat surprised to realize, he is content.

**Author's Note:**

> Might be adding more works to this as a loosely-connected series.
> 
> Send requests and yell with me on tumblr @mangopuffs  
> Twitter: @_mangochi


End file.
